Next Year...
by PikaCheeka
Summary: This is a tale of the sickening irony of one man's Thanksgiving. A day torn between gratefulness, love, hatred, death, a cold son and an empty soul. PG for irony, intent, and angst. YAY! I'm stupid! Thansgiving doesn't happen in England!


This came to me as I was eating today...[don't ask] It's not exactly like my normal work, just so you know. But it is the traditional character [one of the two]....

Lucius contemplates on what he is truly thankful for.

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VERY IMPORTANT NOTE- For everyone who has read 'It Bars the Gates of Death', you should know that Lucius dies saving his son at the end of Draco's seventh year of school. THAT IS VERY VERY IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER AS YOU READ THIS....If you forget that fact, you will not know how this truly ends, and what lies are told here.

This fic is full of sickening irony.

Next Year...

By PikaCheeka

Every year at Thanksgiving everyone at the Ministry invites his or her husband or wife and we all eat there. I personally find it idiotic because most people here have kids at school and they don't come home, so it really can't be considered a family gathering, as Fudge calls it. Although I suppose it would be havoc to have Draco in the same room as Ron. They spend enough time stuck with each other at school. And it seems that every time I am around the two of them they are more inspired to kill one another. It's as if my very being promotes violence.

I'm not surprised at that actually. It is a known fact that I am a genius Death Eater having almost as power as the Dark Lord himself.

I have never been able to figure out why no one has sentenced me to Azkaban yet. Maybe it is because they are afraid of what Voldemort will do. He would probably do nothing, it's not like he's my friend.

"I wonder what Lucius will mention in grace?" someone muttered behind me.

Don't turn around. Must never turn around. It shows your self-pity.

Someone else laughed. "I bet you anything he won't mention his money at all. He's the richest in the wizarding world, and he doesn't even care..."

"Doesn't even deserve it!" another voice joined in.

"I wonder if he knows what charity is..."

I know what charity is. I gave a thousand galleons to charity last week. Enough to go to Egypt and back twelve times over if you're traveling alone. It wasn't even a thousandth of my wealth. 

I have always hated this thing. It seems everyone is thankful for food, money, and family. Money is of no importance to me. It's just a Malfoy thing so I keep it. Food is also nothing to me because blood will suffice. Family? Another Malfoy thing.

My father has always taught me to never love my family. I had to believe him. He never loved me, he hated me. I loved him though, and though bought only his death to my hand, my dagger, my wand. That bought only pain to my soul. 

It seemed all Malfoys are doomed to hate. It seems that any Malfoy who ever loves is hated.

My wife didn't care about me, only my money. My son was impossible to see through, except his eyes grow vivid with fear and hatred at the sight of me. But then again, he is always hating and fearing something or another. As if life itself is something to be hated and feared.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps he is smarter than I.

It is his seventh year. In seven months we must decide his fate. Voldemort or life...

Intelligence or stupidity.

Grace was something I always hated at this dinner. I am more and more tempted not to go to this every year. But I always do. I don't know why. We go around the table. Some people spend ten minutes, like the Weasleys, while others spend a second. I try to avoid spending any.

It seems that every time I do something good it diminishes my power. I don't care about power, but it seems that the two people in the world I love do. Narcissa and Draco look down at me every time I mention doing something good.

That time I gave all to charity? I had to tell Draco it was so we could get free seats up in the box at the Quidditch match. Then, of course, we had to go the world cup. It was a waste of time. Malfoys are part French and part Irish. The Irish, of course, lost. Malfoy luck.

It seemed that even the word 'love' causes Draco to cringe and glare at me. Voldemort too. I never know when he is watching me. Never. So with one slip of my tongue he can come and kill me or perhaps disown me and throw me to the Dementors. Not that the Dementors could do much....

It seems I am as hollow as an empty shell.

And everything I do hollows me out more and more. 

Someone to the left of me was saying their own grace. What were they saying? Typical...

Family, food, money, a home....

I had a family who hated me, food I didn't need, money I didn't care for, and a home as un-homelike as possible. It was immense, a manor that could be called a castle. Over twenty floors. Far too big. It destroyed family even more. The only thing I am thankful for about it is that I get a bedroom to myself. I prefer to be alone when I get mad. I can lock myself away for weeks at a time. 

No one ever notices.

I do though. Because so long ago, the moment I killed my father, the moment he fell to the ground in a puddle of blood, swore at me, and died....I killed myself.

I killed the real Lucius Malfoy.

Now I am a shell, and it is getting less and less possible for me to be a real human. Not that I am. Part vampire, that is what makes Malfoys so particularly ruthless and hateful.

Draco loves it. I hate it. He relishes the power while I ignore it half of the time.

Am I really as inhuman as I seem? I can not love and I can not even hate. I must lie and pretend I hate, just to make myself seem normal. Yet inside I am being torn apart by that sickening force some call love.

Every day it seems I diminish farther. Another year or two, who knows? I may be dead. I probably will be. Something tells that it shall be love that will ultimately destroy me. 

Love for my son.

That is what sickens me. I love him so, but I am almost afraid to act it. He fears me, I know. But that has been from the day he was born dying, and those next five years of my not letting him do anything he wanted. Those were the hyper years of a child and I locked him away, afraid to let him enjoy himself when the slightest cold could knock him dead.

Now he is immune to cold.

He can go outside in below zero weather and be hot in a normal summer robe. Abnormal.

But he is also immune to the cold of his soul and mine.

He doesn't even notice anymore. He doesn't notice when I look at him, longing to tell him I love him. He thinks I am as cold as he, and I must let him think that. For if he realizes that I am not, he may very well kill himself. For he is the one who truly hates as far as I can see.

And yet it will be I who regrets it.

I was always good in Divination, and I predicted my own death. I would die for him. Yet the time was still unknown. It would be until it came.

And I am ready.

"Lucius, your turn." Someone muttered.

I jumped and several people burst into laughter. The nervous kind though, as if they feared I would kill them for it.

"Are you going to say anything this year?" Arthur Weasley smirked. He loves it when he is able to get the best of me.

He is doing that perfectly.

I stood up slowly and glared furiously at everyone, forcing the shy to look away, humiliated for laughing. Forcing the annoyed to turn away as well, afraid to look into those sickening gray pits that are my eyes. Eyes into the soul.

The soul that is crying as it writhes in pain and dies.

"I am thankful for..." I fingered my dagger, thinking. What could I say? Was Voldemort watching? Draco would never know what I said here, would he? What would it really matter if I said I was thankful for him? He is not here to be angry or embarrassed. Nor is my father.

A sudden redness flashed through my mind. Two red slits with narrow black pupils...

"Nothing." I hissed before flopping back down, shaking uncontrollably. 

Next year...next year I would tell the truth. After Voldemort was dead.

After I was free to love.

Then something hit me. There would be no more Thanksgivings for Lucius. I would die before then. Die for Draco.

And now it is too late. Grace is over. I can never tell the truth.

Life is bitter.


End file.
